


Part Two: Hors d’oeuvres

by Calico, Habernero



Series: Good Bread and Fresh Butter [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habernero/pseuds/Habernero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen months later: now they meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**

Eighteen months later

**

  


 

From two-bit pastry chef to head of his own kitchen in under two years—an outsider would be impressed. 

An insider might make a snide remark about the quality of that kitchen, or the fact that no one else wanted it. They might mention his notorious black moods, his difficult relationship with the press, or the number of sous chefs he’d gone through before conceding that Molly was the one (weirdly shy with customers, but fast where John was slow, and handy with a knife like no one else he could hope to afford). They might even comment on how convenient it had been that John’s inheritance finally came through, just as he was about to go under for the fifteenth time, and maybe note that he wasn’t _consistently_ solvent now – but with that sort of remark they’d be coming perilously close to a deluxe knuckle sandwich, on the house. 

Fuck them all, anyway. Here he was: a success, for one evening at least. Awards night held in swanky hotel’s cocktail bar, check. View over the Thames, check. A glass of champagne in his hand and a beautiful woman on his arm, check and checkmate. 

A small voice in the back of his head pointed out that the moment could be diminished on closer examination of the facts: the awards on offer, sponsored by Marchson & Holmes Hoteliers, were hardly Michelin stars; the view was mostly fog; Amy Imran, while certainly beautiful in a Salma Hayek sort of way, had no interest in John beyond the professional; and this particular champagne had all the vim and vigour of a 1988 Lambrusco. 

But at least he was in with a decent chance of winning something. 

“Oh, excellent,” Amy said, directing John’s attention to a knot of hipster journalists by the window knocking back the fizz. “ _Time Out’s_ here.”

“Excellent,” John said. 

Her hand was resting in the crook of his arm. She pinched the inside of his elbow, hard, and smiled when he sent her an injured look.

“All I’m saying is: play nice, and you never know what might happen.” Someone eavesdropping would definitely interpret that tone of voice as flirtation. 

“You mean three-and-a-half stars might stretch to four? How exciting for me!” Damn. That hadn’t meant to sound bitter.

She saw his fake cheer and raised him one, clasping her hands beneath her chin and casting her eyes to the ceiling. “Just imagine!”

John snorted. “All right, fuck off,” he said, taking a deep sip of champagne and wincing as he swallowed. “Feel free to butter them up all you want – I’d rather talk to someone my own age.”

“Suit yourself. The fifty-plusses seem to be congregating over by the bar…” 

“Rude,” John said, but her attention had switched to a group of expensive-looking people who’d just walked in. She bit her lip, clearly trying to remember a name, then gave up. 

“Who’s that?”

“God knows,” John said, smiling but also shifting his weight; his bad leg was starting to ache. “Networking’s never been my strong point.”

The place was filling up, lots of women in bright dresses and men with strained waistbands. John scanned the crowd more purposefully—nodding to the competition, stretching to half a smile when one of the _Time Out_ reps threw him a wink. Despite it all, John liked being winked at. It made him feel charming. 

Still half-smiling, his gaze snagged on an unfamiliar man off to one side of the room: all dark hair and cheekbones, loitering alone by an ornamental fern. John was immediately certain that hadn’t seen him before – not at an event like this, not anywhere. He had the most extraordinary face. Even scowling at a passing waiter holding a plate of canapés, it made John want to stare. And that suit, skimming down the length of him—John forced his eyes onwards, his smile growing stiff. Now was really not the time for that sort of thing.

Amy was also scanning the room. This was a decent opportunity for her: she was a freelance photographer, specializing in cuisine, and always on the look out for new projects. A room full of tipsy restaurateurs should be easy pickings. 

She glanced back at John, head tilted so her dark hair fell over her shoulder, obscuring the thin red strap of her dress. She really was stunning. “Circulate with me?” It was borderline dutiful.

John smiled and shook his head. “You go ahead.” 

“Wonderful,” she said, stepping back and straightening to her full height, and John knew he wouldn’t see her again until the awards were announced. “Come and find me if you get bored.”

“Will do.” He might. 

They’d met about six months ago - he’d been profiled in a supplement for _The Observer_ about up-and-coming restaurants, and she’d been taking the pictures. She made his food look amazing, and on the swell of that warm feeling – the first powerful interest he’d felt for anyone since he’d been back in the country – he’d asked her out. 

_Sorry, darling. Not the right time for me, even if you weren’t married to your work._

John had bristled. _I am not_ , he’d said, and went about proving that by having seven one-night stands over the next four weeks, until Molly took him aside and asked if he was having a midlife crisis. 

John had asserted that he wasn’t. 

_Then stop fucking your way around Hoxton Square, Molly said sweetly, and finish the tasting menu before Dick Reeves tells everyone that we’re an overrated flash in the pan._

John had finished the tasting menu in time for Dick Reeves to tell everyone that they weren’t currently overrated, although they might yet prove to be a flash in the pan, and that until they sorted out their flight of wines the tasting menu would be frankly better unaccompanied.

John had sighed and let Molly hire the sommelier she’d had her eye on (Yelena Matthews, who had short blonde hair and looked devastating in a suit), and then he’d plucked up his nerve and called Amy back: _We need some new photos for the website. Interested?_

The rest of that week had been awkward, but the pictures were good, and John found his attraction for her was fading into a mostly-pleasant background hum. He toyed with fancying the new sommelier instead, but that fizzled out on realising that she was not only gay but also needed to be told – repeatedly! – not to seduce the female customers. 

About this point, it occurred to him that he hadn’t even taken a number for half his one night stands, and had little-to-no interest in calling back the rest. It wasn’t as if he had time, anyway. What with—work.

Bugger.

 _You might be right_ , he’d said to Amy, over a large glass of red to celebrate the new website launch. _I do seem to be a bit married to it._

Amy had made a noise of agreement as she finished her wine, and then invited him to be her plus one to the _British Street Food Awards_ party.

 _And thus_ , John thought, watching her walk away into the glittering crowd of media folk and foodies, _a mutually beneficial sexless networking team was born._

He accepted a top-up of his glass from a passing waiter, and glanced around for someone worth trying to exchange minimally offensive small talk with. It wasn’t that he had _no_ friends in the industry, just… not many. And none that would be here before ten p.m.; Stamford was good for a laugh, but he wouldn’t rock up until he was pissed, and that shouldn’t be for a couple of hours yet. 

Taking a contemplative sip, John let himself glance back in the direction of that man standing alone in the corner, only to discover that he wasn’t alone any more. Another man was talking to him—and this was no plump restaurateur or flashy journalist. This was someone altogether more serious, complete with neat grey hair and grave expression. 

The first man shrugged. His lip was curled, disinterest bordering on offensiveness, and he made a limp gesture as if dismissing the second man out of hand. Nevertheless, even at this distance John could see his eyes looked dark and intent. 

The second man reached into his jacket and withdrew a bit of paper from an inside pocket—a photograph. The first man snatched it off him, studied it for a couple of seconds, then sneered and handed it back.

John realised he was staring and looked away, mind turning. Police? Agent? Who else went around asking questions and showing pictures? Particularly at an event like this. Speaking of which, he should really—

“John,” crooned a familiar voice, all velvet and perfume. “Don’t you scrub up wonderfully.”


	2. Chapter 2

John smiled and turned, holding his breath as Irene glided in to press a not-quite-air kiss to each cheek. She was in black, of course: complicated slices of silk that teased his fingers as she embraced him. The heat of her body through the thin fabric was diverting. 

“So do you,” John said. 

“One must make the teeniest effort.” She picked up his tie close to his throat and smoothed her fingers down it. “I like this, I must say.”

“Makes a change from chefs’ whites.”

“Well I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.”

John grinned. “I might need to win a few more of these before I can afford your services.”

Irene Adler was a—the proper term was probably “businesswoman”. A purveyor of rare or exotic ingredients, she offered bespoke menu improvement for those who had the money. John most certainly did not.

“Confident. I like that in a man.”

John raised his eyebrows. 

Irene laughed. “And how is your _lovely_ sister?”

“Er, enough of that, thank you very much,” John said, clapping her on the arm. Even through the silk, he swore she ran a couple of degrees hotter than normal people. “She’s fine, she’s well, and she’s definitely not here.”

“Working… late? Poor baby. Perhaps I’ll drop by after this, I’ve got a bottle of her favourite terrible vodka.“

John gave her a tiny wince. “Best not, eh?” He was still polite, but he—that wasn’t what Harry needed right now. Harry had spent _her_ inheritance on a ramshackle bar in Soho, which she ran with varying degrees of success depending on that week’s inspiration and drama. A visit from Irene would be tantamount to throwing this quarter’s profits straight out the window. 

Irene pouted. “You don’t like that idea?”

“She’s already booked up tonight,” John said. “With me.”

Irene’s eyes lit up. “She’s coming here?”

“No! We’re going for late-night Chinese – it’s a Watson tradition. Invite-only,” he added, for good measure, whilst making a mental note to text Harry this plan as soon as Irene moved on.

“Mmm,” Irene said, watching him closely. “Well, I suppose, if you’re going to be tiresome about it…”

“I am very tiresome. Renowned for it.” Cracking a smile. Not believing her for a minute. 

“…I might go chat to your photographer friend instead,” Irene said, a lazy challenge in her eyes.

John snorted; he’d love to see her try. “Be my guest,” he said, relaxing slightly. “That reminds me, you’d probably get on with my new sommelier like a house on fire.”

Irene’s arched eyebrows inched up. “How marvellous,” she said. “I’ll be sure to drop by. Oh, hello, Inspector! I was just going.”

She made an elegant but swift exit, and John turned to find himself face to face with the grey-haired man from earlier. Policeman had been bang on the money, then. 

“Er, hello,” John said, resisting a sudden urge to fold his arms. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man said. “Sorry to interrupt.“ 

“She really was just going.”

“She always is,” Lestrade said, his face transformed by a wry grin, and John found himself grinning back. He was rather handsome, up close.

“I bet,” he said. “How can I help?”

Lestrade’s smile faded, and he took out the photograph and showed it to John. “Missing person, actually. Just a few inquiries, totally routine. Man by the name of Richard Reeves – know him?”

John frowned. “Not well. I mean, I know the name – like everyone else here, I should think. I haven’t seen him in… must be weeks, actually. How long has he been missing?”

“Between four and six days,” Lestrade said. His face didn’t give anything away. “An elderly neighbour called us, saying he’d arranged to help her with her shopping on Tuesday and then never turned up. She couldn’t reach him on his phone, but left a voicemail, then when she hadn’t heard from him by this morning she called us. Any ideas where he might have got to?”

John shook his head, still boggling at the idea of Dick Reeves helping anyone with anything unless there was a complimentary bottle of bubbly attached. “None, sorry. I’d expect him to be here tonight, though I guess events like this would be ten-a-penny when you write for _The Telegraph_.” 

Lestrade tilted his head, half-smiling. “Bitter, are we?”

“Hardly,” John said, smiling back. “He gave me four stars.” He paused, a distant memory resolving. “He’s got some cottage in France, hasn’t he? Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gone there for the week.”

“Without telling anyone?”

John shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Like I said, I don’t know him. But he’s not exactly famous for being sociable.”

“Neither are you, Mr Watson,” Lestrade said, and John opened his mouth indignantly before realising he was being teased. 

“Ha-bloody-ha - I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, before remembering it was probably unwise to talk like that to the police. “I mean, er, any more questions?”

Lestrade put the photograph back in his pocket. “Thanks for your help,” he said, and gave John a business card. “If you hear anything, don’t hesitate to give me a ring.”

For a fleeting moment, as Lestrade nodded to him and moved away, John had the strangest feeling that he’d just been hit on. By a handsome policeman. On duty. Obviously nonsense, but Lestrade wasn’t going to give everyone in this room his phone number, was he? Or maybe he was. Maybe John just had sex on the brain. 

John put the card in his wallet, tapped out a quick text to Harry, and then his eyes darted back towards the man in the corner. Sex on the brain, indeed. 

The man still wasn’t alone; he’d collared a waiter now, who looked red-faced and flustered. The waiter’s shoulders were hunched as he pried the foil off a new bottle of champagne and discreetly popped the cork. 

The man watched impassively as the waiter poured a generous glass, then took it and dismissed him with a couple of words. John watched the waiter hurry away, head bent, clutching the bottle, and then his attention flicked back to the man, alone again. 

The man raised the glass and frowned at it, tilting it in the light, thoughtful lines tense between his eyebrows and beside his eyes. Then he sipped, his eyes closing, his face smoothing over. His lips moved, pouting out and then pressing together.

Then the man opened his eyes, looking straight at John. 

Heat surfaced on John’s face, and he jerked his gaze away—and then thought _fuck it_ and looked back. 

Without looking away from John, the man tipped the rest of his champagne into the ornamental fern and set the empty glass on the table. Then he stuck both hands in his pockets, framing his hips and splaying the smooth lines of his suit jacket, and winked at him.

John blinked, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. The man was still looking, steady now, his lips twisted in a sly smile. 

There was no doubt – well, minimal doubt – well, it at least seemed more than likely that the wink was aimed at John. Which was… surreal. And probably bad. And impossible to ignore. That body, unfeasibly sleek in this room full of people who explored rich food for a living. That demeanour, sharp as a blade where everyone else was getting muggy and self-congratulatory on free champagne. That hair, which John just wanted to sink his hands into. That _face_.

John glanced at his nearest neighbours (no one he recognized; deep in conversation), and then at Amy (hovering on the edge of the expensive-looking group, intently focused on a familiar-faced, supercilious-looking man in a plum-coloured waistcoat), and then he walked casually towards the ornamental fern, keeping his gaze vague, not looking at the man until he was close enough to say hello.

He’d somehow managed to pause his mental processes during his approach; now, in the microsecond before he met the man’s eye, all the restrained thoughts rushed over him like hissing surf. Why was he here and what was he hoping to achieve and what on earth was he going to say? 

He opted to tilt his chin and look the man in the eye and say, simply, “Hello.”

“Hello,” the man said. He had a deep, pleased-with-himself voice.

John felt a jolt of warmth shoot through him, and decided to go with his instincts. Straight talking. As it were. “You winked at me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You like being winked at.”

John had been about to introduce himself, but now he paused, eyes narrowing. 

The man half-smiled at his hesitation, and continued in that same languid voice: “Just as you like any excuse for detaching yourself from these people, for whom you have a soldier’s disdain and a doctor’s exasperation and despair.” 

“I…. wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” John said. He felt like he ought to be taken aback, angry even, but found that he was grinning uncertainly. “Have you been talking to Amy or something?”

The idea of this attractive stranger making enquiries about him was – promising. 

The man sneered. “Why would I talk to your phony date about anything? When she is so clearly far more concerned with her own career than the painful impression of romantic solidarity you’re hoping – _attempting_ – to give.”

Right, well, there was the anger then. “So you are a journalist,” John said flatly. “I thought as much, dressed like that.” 

To his surprise, a grin flashed across the man’s face. “Hardly.”

John lifted his chin. “Why’ve you been reading up on me, then?”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

John looked away. Maybe this wasn’t worth the effort after all. If this man was just a cock—

“Everything I have said was clear from a few seconds of observation. The paltry eye contact between you coupled with the watchful way in which you spoke to each other, your lack of reaction when her the curve of her breast brushed your upper arm… it all points to a platonic relationship, but her soft grip of your elbow, and the fact that your tie matches her dress, clearly suggests you are trying to be taken as a couple. Why would a photographer and a restaurateur wish to give that impression? She wants to bulk up her portfolio, and he wants to do her a favour, besides always looking for excuses to avoid small talk with his industry colleagues whenever possible. How close am I?”

John realised he was gaping at him. “Close,” he admitted. The anger had dissipated. That was… amazing. Terrifying, but amazing. “You could really tell all that just by looking at us?”

“Yes,” the man said. There was an intriguing light in his eyes. 

“You look surprised.”

“I am never surprised,” the man said; it was as if the phrase had been worn slippery with overuse. 

“I can believe that,” John said, and could have kicked himself. Fawn all over him, why don’t you? He cleared his throat, held out his hand. “Well, probably a bit redundant at this point, but - John Watson.”

The man shook it, pausing griping firm for a couple of seconds longer than felt natural. “I know.”

John breathed out an exasperated laugh. “And you are…?”

“Oh, you _don’t_ know? No, I see you don’t. My name is Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

That surname was familiar. “Holmes. You’re not—”

“You are thinking of Mycroft Holmes, the money behind tonight’s _cash prize_.” He might as well have been saying _cat shit_. “The one whose arse your ‘date’,” – John could hear the inverted commas – “is trying to introduce her tongue to, with minimal degrees of success. Mycroft prefers blonds,” he added. “Preferably Swedes, and hung like a carthorse.”

John barked a laugh, and Sherlock blinked, glancing sideways at him, a fleeting curiosity in his eyes. Warmth sparked again in John’s stomach, low; there was something extremely nice about surprising him. This evening seemed to be taking a turn for the better. 

John turned and made a point of scanning the crowd. “Well, since I don’t see any Swedish men with a low centre of gravity,” he mused, “am I to assume you’re here as your brother’s plus one, or…?” 

“I am here on my own merits,” Sherlock said frostily. “And Tomas will be back at their club.”

As John opened his mouth to ask about the nature of these merits, a waitress hove into view with a plate of canapés. Quick as a pouncing cat, Sherlock intercepted her with a beckoning hand. He then ignored her in favour of critically studying what was on offer.

The plate, John noted, was full. She must have been on her way out from the kitchen. Watching the greedy gleam in Sherlock’s eyes, John suddenly suspected the merits on which this secluded corner had been chosen. 

Sherlock inspected the whole plate and then selected one – a blini smudged with soft white cheese, supporting a small heap of gleaming black caviar – and raised it to his mouth between two careful fingertips. John elected not to watch as his lips parted to take it; the waitress was hardly going to be blind, was she? And if this really was a Holmes brother, the last thing John needed was to get tongues wagging. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, scowling as he chewed. He grabbed the plate from the waitress and waved her away with one imperious hand; she hesitated just a moment, then seemed to cut her losses and about-turned back to the kitchen.

John raised his eyebrows. 

Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head. “Careless,” he said, with a moue of distaste, and proffered the plate to John. “Try it, John.”

_Yes, sir_. Smirking, John selected one from the plate and ate it. The flavours burst brightly in his mouth, a creamy tang of goat’s cheese beneath the clean sharp brine of the caviar. It was over far too soon, and he immediately wanted three more. 

He glanced back to find that Sherlock was watching him closely.

“Mm,” John said, licking his lips. “Not bad.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, honestly! The caviar has been excessively chilled by around three degrees – can’t you taste how brittle and watered down it’s become?”

“Ah… no,” John admitted. “I thought it was rather good.”

Sherlock shot him a scathing look. “Oh, it’s adequate for a crowd like this,” he said, “but it is hardly exemplary.”

“Neither is the crowd,” John murmured, which earned him a flicker of a smile. He pointed at the plate. “What about that one?”

It was a delicate wedge of sea bass with caper puree. Earlier, John had helped himself to several. 

Sherlock speared it on a cocktail stick and scrutinised it with a doubtful pout that made John very aware of the defined curves of his lips. Slowly, with the help of one finger, Sherlock slipped it into his mouth, eyes narrowing. He chewed, swallowing twice. Then he blinked at John, licking his fingertips.

John found he needed to swallow also. “Well?” 

“Terrible,” Sherlock said briskly, and set the plate down on the table. “Lifeless and tough, like chewing on a pencil eraser. There’s only one explanation – external caterer. You,” he said, accosting yet another passing waiter holding an unopened bottle of champagne. “The sea bass – shipped in from Harrods at the last minute, after 110% of the anticipated guests arrived, am I correct?”

The waiter glanced around, wide-eyed, then looked reluctantly back at Sherlock and nodded. “Er, is there a problem? Do you want me to get someone?”

“No, but you can leave us the bottle.”

“I’m supposed to be—“

“We only want the first glass,” Sherlock said, reaching for it. He extracted the cork with a soft, practiced twist and caught the first shining rush of it in his glass, then turned to John, smiling. 

“John,” he said, low and prompting, causing a prickle of heat up the back of John’s neck. Yes, he could get used to hearing his name in that voice.

He held out his glass and let Sherlock top it up before he passed the bottle back to the waiter, eyes still fixed on John’s. 

“Your _very_ good health,” Sherlock said, and sipped, watching him over the rim of the glass. 

John sipped, enjoying the renewed bounce of bubbles against his tongue. He found himself laughing softly. “That – before, that was incredible,” he said, before he could stop himself. “How did you know?”

“It was obvious,” Sherlock said, as if it really was. The fizz was dancing merrily in his glass, but he set it aside as well. The hands went back in the pockets. John wanted him more with every passing second. 

“Right,” John said, trying not to seem wrong-footed. “So what are you, a food critic or something?”

“Or something,” Sherlock said. He hesitated, and then gave an informative nod. “I have a website.”

“I might look it up.”

“Yes, I imagine you will,” Sherlock said, and smirked. 

John waited a couple of seconds before giving up. “What?”

Bold as brass, Sherlock said in that deep, matter-of-fact voice: “I’m looking forward to you worshiping my cock.”

Time stood still for a moment. It was a little like being shot at – and John should know – with the white-hot disbelief and all possible next actions racing through his head at once. _What?_ and _Did you actually just say—?_ and _Oh you are, are you?_ and _Fuck off!_ and then—

“Just say the word,” John heard himself say, heart pounding as he met Sherlock’s steady gaze, arrogant as fuck but _God, yes, please_.

A smile flickered around the edges of Sherlock’s lips. “My room is on the top floor.”

Of this hotel? Of course, of this hotel. If you came to your brother’s awards night purely to hook up, which apparently Sherlock did, then of course it made sense to hire the penthouse upstairs. Obviously. 

John flashed him a grin, hard-edged with excitement. “Lead on.” 

Sherlock led on: weaving through the crowd like a snake, not waiting or looking back to see if John was following. John pasted a more casual smile onto his face and kept up as well as he could; at least his leg had stopped hurting. He wasn’t examining his thoughts too closely. No one would miss him. As long as he was back in time for the announcements… 

Whilst his thoughts dwelled over whether the direct approach would extend to the bedroom, he caught up with Sherlock in the deserted thick-pile reception area. There were five sets of lift doors; one had a call button next to it, and the others had panels that gently glowed red. 

Sherlock passed his hand across one of the red panels, and they all lit up soft green instead. A palmed key-card, John surmised, as Sherlock stepped back and folded his arms, smirking. Twat.

Sherlock didn’t look at him, and for a moment John’s gaze lingered on the back of his ridiculous over-styled hair and upright shoulders, the heat-waves of energy that seemed to radiate off him. He found himself wondering if he was dreaming – or at least, way off the mark. Surely men like this didn’t usually—

With a soft shushing noise, the doors of the middle lift opened. 

"Not that one," Sherlock said crisply, when John took a step towards it. He swiped the key-card again, and a few seconds later a different set of doors slid open. 

This lift, apparently, was satisfactory. John followed him in, immediately assaulted by reflections of them both from three mirrored walls. Sherlock looked perfect in every dimension; John looked like he was on drugs. 

Sherlock turned around and, as soon as the doors closed behind them, crowded John back against the mirror and lowered his mouth to John’s neck. "This one has a broken camera," he said, sucking a restless path up to John’s chin, all that energy suddenly pressing in close. “I could tell by the fact that it’s been mostly held on the seventh floor, which is a service floor – and because none of the staff use it. Place like this, the staff want to be in CCTV view at all times. Essentially an alibi for any thefts, do you follow?”

John’s head had tipped back, and he was shivering as Sherlock's lips explored along his throat towards his ear. He’d barely felt the rising sensation as the lift ascended, let alone processed half of what Sherlock had said. 

“Mmm,” he tried, and Sherlock’s laugh was hot against his skin, loud as he nuzzled John’s earlobe. 

“You love this,” Sherlock said, an edge to his voice. His body swayed against John’s, grinding him back against the metal doors, and all of John’s focus narrowed to the unmistakable hard line of his cock, pressing close. “I knew you would – you hate all that, in there, can’t even remember why you came. You’re not particularly interested in awards, whether they’re for you or anyone else, and what other people call networking is your idea of purgatory; whilst the prospect of sex with me feels like a pleasing fuck-you to the whole establishment.”

“Mmm,” John said again, nodding, and Sherlock gave another soft laugh.

“You don’t want to know how I know?” he asked, closing his hands on John's waist and muscling even closer, fitting the bulge of his cock against John’s hipbone and rocking.

“Secret handshake,” John gasped, twisting to try and kiss him. His neck felt like it was on fire; the rest of him wanted to squirm. “Written all over my face. Saw me perving over how you ate canapés. God, I couldn’t care less.”

He felt the brush of Sherlock's breath against his lips, and then the lift was announcing, " _Twelfth floor_ ," and opening its doors to reveal royal blue carpets and paintwork so white it almost glowed. John was left with two handfuls of empty air and a view of Sherlock’s long legs eating up the floor as he strode off down the grand hush of the corridor.

John followed, catching Sherlock up just as he keyed open a large gleaming white door. The room inside didn't look lived-in—there was a long dark coat draped over a chair, a laptop on a glass side-table, but other than that no signs of human habitation beyond the glossy-magazine hotel idea of “welcoming”.

Sherlock turned to him with a dark gleam in his eyes and said, "Close the door and sit on the bed."

So the direct approach did extend to the bedroom. 

John closed the door, glanced at the bed, then walked towards Sherlock instead. 

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "I said—"

"I heard," John said, "and I will, believe me, but I want to do this first." 

He leaned up quickly and kissed the taken-aback look off Sherlock's face - earning a sharply indrawn breath for his efforts, but beyond that Sherlock barely moved, until John pressed harder, parting his lips. Sherlock made a curious noise as John's tongue brushed into his mouth, and then responded all at once—a hard, focused kiss that made John's breath catch. 

John had the strangest sensation that he had won an argument, but there was no chance to explore that before Sherlock was steering him backwards towards the bed, kissing him still, but pushing in a way that invited no resistance. John went with it, taking the opportunity to sink his fingers into Sherlock's thick hair; enjoying the height Sherlock had on him, the warm push of those solid thighs, the sparks as their dicks brushed through several layers of clothing. 

The backs of John’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he broke the kiss as he almost overbalanced backwards. “Whoa, there,” he said, half-panting and half-laughing, righting himself before he caught Sherlock’s petulant expression.

“I don’t want to _whoa_ ,” Sherlock said, smoothing both hands up John’s arms and onto his shoulders. “I want you to suck me off, and you want it too, so why are we messing around doing anything else?”

John raised his eyebrows. “You’re lucky you’re so bloody gorgeous.” 

At this rate he expected an eye-roll in response, but instead a strange look flashed across Sherlock’s face and his mouth worked for a second before he said, “You, too.”

John didn’t have time to process that before Sherlock pressed down hard with both hands; John gave him a disbelieving look as he acquiesced, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed, but Sherlock had been right. He wanted this, and now it was at eye level, the bulge distending those neat shiny trousers—he wanted it very much indeed.

“Go on,” Sherlock said, a low murmur that sounded like encouragement but which John was beginning to suspect was pure self-indulgence. 

Still, it wasn’t much of a chore to slide his hands up Sherlock’s legs, carding the silken material of his trousers against his palms and coaxing him to step closer. He moved his own knees apart, creating a space for Sherlock to move into, and there was something deliciously dirty about that, to have him standing between John’s spread thighs, fully clothed and obscenely hard. 

Time seemed to slow down again as John dragged his fingertips up and down the backs of Sherlock’s thighs and leaned in to fit his mouth against the cloth-covered ridge of his dick. Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders tightened, and his hips swung forwards; John relished the push of heated fabric against his face, breathing out hard. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said again, his deep voice roughened with something unsteady, and John grinned and brought his hands around to work on Sherlock’s fly. His own cock was straining in his lap, and he spread his knees even wider, pulling his suit trousers tight across his crotch. It was almost friction, almost pressure. It made him want to move. 

By the time he’d got Sherlock’s cock out, he was practically squirming. It looked pink against the dark grey of his suit, and very hard—sexy as fuck. John lowered his head to it, brushing it with his lips, just letting the tip of his tongue dart out to taste it, the musk and the heat. He could barely remember how he’d got here, but everything else paled by comparison. Cock worship, Sherlock wanted, huh? John would see what he could do. 

“Yes, go on,” Sherlock said, fainter now, fingers digging into John’s shoulders.

“Patience,” John said, smiling as he circled the head ever-so-lightly with his tongue. 

Sherlock gave a hard sigh, air rushing out as if he’d been punched. 

“Not my strong suit,” he croaked, and now John felt like the self-satisfied one.

He circled his tongue again, sweeping over the slick tang of fluid at the tip and then headed on down the shaft, drawing slow light circles with just the tip of his tongue. 

Sherlock gave another hard sigh, and his fingers clenched in John's hair. "You can—suck it," he said, as if with difficulty, and John grinned against the base of his cock, pressing lazy kisses all around. 

"Generous of you," he said, and felt Sherlock's hands tighten in his hair.

"Should," Sherlock corrected himself. "You _should_."

John licked slowly up with the flat of his tongue, and felt Sherlock's thighs jerk. "I thought you wanted—"

"What I want is s-subject to change," Sherlock said, sucking a breath in through his teeth as John started very, very gently to suck on the spot just beneath the head where he personally liked to be paid the most attention. 

"Mm-hmm."

"And I get bored very easily," Sherlock said, all in a rush. 

John pulled back a little, sending Sherlock a pissed-off look but letting his cock rest on his lips. "Boring you, am I?" 

Sherlock’s eyes were wild. "Not to the letter of it," he said, "but frustrating, provoking—and all on purpose," he added, an accusatory squeak as John said, " _Sorry_ ," and slipped the head back into his mouth. 

He closed his eyes as he took it a little deeper, rubbed across it more firmly with his tongue—but still, as he felt Sherlock bear forwards eagerly, he kept it light, teasing.

"It is quite obvious that you are _not_ sorry," Sherlock said after a while, managing to sound officious despite his increasingly ragged breathing. 

John hummed in acknowledgement, sucking gently on the head, sealing round it with his lips, tongue lapping up salt in light wet strokes. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, how long Sherlock would be able to stand it, but the thought of taking him to pieces like this was—

“Oh, God, just,” Sherlock bit off, and pushed himself firmly into John’s mouth. 

John made a surprised noise, and Sherlock slid out and pushed in again, grunting as he went deeper, right to the back of John’s tongue. 

John opened his mouth more to accommodate him, dropping one hand to wrestle with his own flies before his cock forced them open of its own accord. This was—the change of gear was good, he’d been getting lost back there. Now he was one hundred per cent back in the present, and fuck, he was so hard, feeling Sherlock’s cock stretching his lips, filling his mouth, making his eyes water.

He cracked his eyes open enough to see Sherlock staring down at his cock buried in John’s mouth. Sherlock’s gaze snapped to his, and he pushed in again, slow but firm.

John made a token attempt at sucking, just to show willing, and Sherlock groaned and kept going. There was a moment of almost tenderness, Sherlock's large hands cradling his face, and then Sherlock found the grip he wanted, a gentle immobilisation of John's jaw, and started fucking his mouth, not so gentle. 

John squeezed his eyes shut and held still, letting him do it, welcoming the smooth slide of Sherlock's cock against his tongue. Just what he needed: rough sex in a penthouse whilst that lot milled around for England downstairs. John wasn’t one for milling; his leg didn’t like it. Come to think of it, his leg felt fucking fine right now.

The hard head of Sherlock's cock rubbed against the back of his mouth, a relentless pulsing pressure, nudging deeper with every thrust. John swallowed haphazardly, relaxing his throat and tipping his head so that Sherlock couldn’t fail but get the message: _Go on. If you want to. Do it._

“Ah,” Sherlock said, just a syllable but to John it sounded vaguely appreciative, and then Sherlock was pushing harder, angling until his cock slid right into John’s throat, and it was too much and too brilliant all at once. 

“Fuck,” Sherlock bit off, and no word had ever sounded sweeter. He pulled out, only to do it again, and again, faster—snatching breath wherever he could, John let himself float in the dirty dizzy rush of deep-throating. The soft weight of Sherlock's balls tapping his chin, the press of Sherlock's fingers into his face—it made his own dick swell fit to burst.

John stroked himself, trying to match Sherlock’s rhythm and finding it changed every ten seconds – grinding slow followed by a choppy, almost frantic series of thrusts, and back again. The only thing that didn’t change was the absolute selfishness of every movement: he was taking no prisoners, making no friends. 

Sherlock pulled out of his throat and settled back into fucking his mouth, shallow and fast. John could hear him beginning to pant harder, and forced himself to let go of his own cock; he didn’t want to miss a second of this. He felt electrically charged all over, hairs standing up and sweat running beneath his clothes. He tried to swallow and suck at the same time, clamping his lips together and feeling Sherlock’s cock get even harder between them. 

“Ah—ah,” Sherlock gasped, sounding almost surprised, clutching the back of John’s head and working his cock faster into John’s mouth, the first smears of soft salt catching on John’s tongue. 

John hummed as loud as he could, rubbing with his tongue, his own dick flexing in sympathy as Sherlock’s jerked in his mouth. One of Sherlock’s fists was yanking his hair, and he couldn’t care less. His lips were tingling and his eyes were smarting and he’d not felt better than this all _year_. 

“—Ah,” Sherlock groaned, a short ragged noise accompanying the last decelerating thrusts as he emptied himself into John’s mouth. John swallowed the hot flood of it, trying not to gag as Sherlock’s fingers tightened in his hair. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock said, a whispered moan before subsiding into soft panting, grip gentling, going still. 

There were a few long seconds that rang in John’s ears, before Sherlock was clearing his throat and pulling out. He was a picture of rumpled dark-eyed smugness, still a touch unfocused, and John wanted nothing more than to drag him onto that perfect hotel bed and climb on top. 

John swallowed again and licked his numb lips, looking up at him. “Happy?” 

“Temporarily,” Sherlock said, his voice pleasingly ragged, reaching to tuck his cock back into his trousers.

John stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, take them off, I want to…“ _See you_ seemed too intimate, even now. “…Watch.” Oh right, and that sounded much better. Maybe he’d been more oxygen deprived than he’d realised.

He forgave himself at the sight of Sherlock undressing, one hand still resting proprietary in John’s hair as the other pushed his trousers to the floor and started working on his shirt, one-handed but swift. 

John shook free to stand and undress himself, his own fingers tripping in their haste. He paid enough attention to sling his clothes over the chair at the foot of the bed, but only just—his eyes were on Sherlock, and he found himself circling him, enjoying the brisk reveal of chest, stomach, thighs, arse. There wasn’t a part of him he didn’t want to sink his teeth into, rub his cock against, suck on.

Sherlock apparently had no qualms about being regarded like a piece of meat: his lips were quirked upwards, his eyes knowing. He was already recovering his composure, with only traces of former wildness: the sheen of sweat, the blotchy colour on his chest, the red of his lower lip, recently bitten.

“You’re so fucking hot,” John told him, sliding his hands up Sherlock’s warm damp chest and refocusing on his mouth. “I want—“

“Ah,” Sherlock said, and held up a warning hand. “There’s no point demanding I return the favour, or whatever colloquialism you were about to employ.”

It brought John up short; he hadn’t been going to ask anything of the sort, but now: “Why not?”

“My delicate palate,” Sherlock said. “I can’t afford to let you ruin it.”

He looked quizzical when John barked a laugh, but not at all worried. There was no hint that he even recognised that it might not always be a good idea to vigorously fuck someone’s mouth and then refuse to reciprocate. 

John shook his head, grinning, and pushed Sherlock down onto the bed. 

“You can’t risk your delicate palate,” he mimicked, crawling on top. “Well, fair enough.” His cock dragging against Sherlock’s bare thigh felt really damn good as he lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. “So I should flip you over right here, and have you like that instead, is that what you’re saying?”

Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed. “Tempting,” he said, with what sounded like real warmth in his voice, and John shivered at the image that went through his brain: Sherlock on his knees, bent over this big bed, taking John’s cock up his arse just as hard as he’d been dishing it out. 

“But you didn’t bring any supplies,” Sherlock continued, in that same warm voice, “and as an ex-army doctor you wouldn’t risk it bareback with someone you don’t know.”

The edges of John’s vision turned hazy. "As an ex-army doctor I learned how to improvise," he said, spitting on his hand and rolling Sherlock over. 

Sherlock turned readily onto his stomach, and John noted dry-mouthed that Sherlock’s legs parted and his spine curved back, presenting the shadowed cleft of his arse, with no added encouragement. John ran his fingers down that curve, brushing across his hole, and Sherlock hummed, a suggestive sound. John bit his lip because Sherlock had been right – he wouldn't, definitely _shouldn’t_ – and did it again, watching Sherlock’s arse rise against his fingertips; and then he shifted on top of him and slid his cock between Sherlock’s inner thighs instead, right up against his balls. 

Sherlock tightened his legs obligingly, letting John thrust into that soft tight place and try to pretend it was enough. It would be enough to get him off, obviously, because heat and pressure and the skin-on-skin rub always would be, but as John groaned and Sherlock pushed back against him, rocking his arse against John’s pelvis and arching his back, it was laughable to suggest he didn't want more.

He palmed the length of Sherlock’s side, damp and almost tawny against the white sheets, then fitted his hand to Sherlock’s hipbone and started working his hips in earnest. Short hot slides, Sherlock’s thighs clamped around his cock, tight and getting sweat-slick and nearly, nearly—

He could see Sherlock lazily grinning as John thrust, and the thought of wiping the grin off his face (with his dick) spiked through his brain. He pushed his fingers against that grin, prying for access, and Sherlock licked and nibbled at his fingertips, extra soft jolts of sensation. 

John grunted and shoved down harder, grinding himself up between Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock’s hips tipped back, rocking John’s cock right into the crease of his arse. 

John shuddered out a breath, pressed a hard kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder blade and then said quietly into his ear, "I've obviously not quite got your talent for reading people, but I could swear that you want me to push in as much as I want to be inside you." 

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, twisting back until John’s mouth was against his cheek. "Very few people could want that as much as you do right now."

John gave a low groan of acknowledgment. "But you—wouldn't stop me."

"Of course I wouldn't stop you," Sherlock said, voice rich with disdain. "Your cock is very thick and hard, and I still find you attractive – the fact that intercrural frottage feels this good predicts extremely gratifying anal sex."

John laughed breathlessly against Sherlock’s cheek. "You're something else."

"I am not," Sherlock retorted. "I am quite unlike anything or anyone else, and— _ah_. Yes. Go on."

John had lined up against his own volition, his cockhead fitting perfectly against the soft-firm dip of Sherlock’s hole. 

John clenched his teeth. "No," he said, and then, barely recognising his own voice, "turn over."

He lifted himself enough for Sherlock to roll over beneath him, and to his surprise Sherlock obeyed without comment, winding up flat on his back within the frame of John’s hands and knees. His cock was lying on his stomach, not hard but still hefty and full, and John lowered his own cock on top of it so he could wrap his hand around then both.

"That okay," he said – though he was under no illusions that Sherlock wouldn't smack his hand away if it wasn't – and Sherlock licked his lips and said, "So far."

John squeezed, stroking them together, not too hard but loving the thick weight of his handful. Sherlock’s eyelids twitched almost closed, and he nudged his hips up, permissive.

John stared down at him, still stroking, still slow, breathing harder with every pass of his hand. He liked having Sherlock this way up, being able to see the flickering judgment of his face: approving and then bored and then approving again. He liked watching the flush of colour recede down his pale chest, and it struck him that he'd like to fuck him like this, one leg over John’s shoulder, rolling his hips and watching the slide of it play across Sherlock’s face. But then he 'd also liked him face-down, arching back against him; after what they'd just done, he definitely wanted to fuck him from behind, for that blinding deep pleasure of pinning him down and giving it to him hard. And then maybe Sherlock could—

He was getting ahead of himself. 

"There are so many things I want to do to you," John muttered, half-hypnotised by the sweaty angle at the clench of Sherlock’s jaw, the gap between his parted lips, the untidy fall of his hair.

“Well you'd better do them quickly,” Sherlock said, with a sly smile that John wanted to lean down and lick. “The announcements begin in twelve minutes and my brother would not deem you in a fit state to accept an award right now.”

Bugger, John thought, and then found he couldn’t care less. Fuck the awards, frankly; he just wanted more of this. “And you would?”

Sherlock sized him up with a heated glance. "Absolutely." Then he grinned. "I'll speed things up for you. Come here."

His hands were urging John up the bed; John let go of their cocks to crawl up him, mouth going dry. When he was kneeling straddling Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s hands warm on the back of his thighs, he licked his lips and managed to say, "I thought you didn't want to."

"I don’t want you to fuck my mouth. That doesn't mean I can't lick it, occasionally, whilst jerking you off."

"That's—" John’s voice became strangled as Sherlock wrapped both hands around his cock, aiming it at his mouth, and started to stroke. "—Good.”

"I know."

"Jesus," John gasped, staring at Sherlock’s cupid's-bow lips opening pink against the head of his cock, as his hands squeezed and pulled, stroking quick and hard enough to make the prospect of getting off jump from a distant heat-haze to really fucking nearby. “You’re—fuck, yes, like that—“

“I know,” Sherlock said again, flicking his tongue against the crown John’s cock.

"I bet you do,” John growled, the fever of it pitching inside him, making his voice hoarse and reckless. “You know a lot, always watching. And now—you're going to watch me come on you, aren't you? You're going to lie there—"

Sherlock nodded, and it felt like a dare.

"—While I come all over your face."

"Go on then," Sherlock said, sliding his grip over John's cock, confident and fast and hard; and then he crammed a knuckle up behind John's balls, causing a spark of sensation that shot deep and then flared.

"Fuck," John shouted, and didn't even have time to be shocked by the volume of his own voice before it was happening, he was coming, abrupt and stunningly hard. Most of it juddered across Sherlock's collarbones and chest before he got his hand on his cock to aim, but he managed to angle one satisfying streak across Sherlock's lips and cheek before it was over—energy cascading away, leaving him swaying on his knees with a stupid, proud grin.

Sherlock ran his pointed tongue over his top lip, licking it clean. Then he wrinkled his noise and drawled, "I wouldn’t recommend it.”

John laughed, flopping down on the bed next to him. Tremendous heat was pulsing through him, in slow strong waves; the heat of Sherlock’s body next to him was both attractive and unbearable. He pillowed his head on his arms and closed his eyes, drifting on the heady currents of wellbeing, waiting to feel as if a bomb hadn’t just gone off inside him. His mouth wouldn’t un-curve. Fucking hell. 

He’d needed that.


	4. Chapter 4

“Three minutes,” Sherlock said, after what felt like fifteen seconds. 

John mumbled “ _ugh_ ” and forced himself to look around for something to clean up with. A small square box of tissues on the bedside table: that would do. He tugged out a handful and cupped them over the head of his cock, before passing the box to Sherlock. 

Sherlock regarded them without comment.

John huffed a laugh at his expression. “Suit yourself.” The sight of Sherlock lying there, still liberally decorated with his come, was pleasing on a very basic level. "You're a mess," he said, grinning. He himself had pretty much got away scot-free.

"And you have a dreadful habit of stating the obvious, but do I complain?"

"Er, yes,” John said, finishing wiping the last of the smears off himself and chucking the tissues at the bin. “I think it would be fair to say that you do."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am going to shower.”

“Probably for the best,” John agreed. His energy levels were picking up again: he felt ready to bounce out of bed and take over the world. The world of low-level catering, that was. “What’s stopping you?”

“I… nothing,” Sherlock said, looking momentarily blank and then giving himself a small nod, pushing up on his elbows. His lip curled as some of the mess redistributed itself down his sides. 

John bit the inside of his cheek, holding in a smirk. “All right if I use your bathroom, first?”

“Feel free.”

John went for a piss, blotted across his forehead and under his arms with a dampened flannel, and then paused at the door, contemplating wrapping a towel around his waist before going back outside. It was a bit late for modesty, though - Sherlock had already seen everything there was to see, and he didn’t exactly miss much. 

John squared his shoulders and walked back out, heading straight for his pile of clothes. Sherlock had propped himself up on some pillows, and was writing something in a Moleskine notebook braced against one up-drawn knee. John found himself staring; he could quite easily imagine settling down next to him, fitting himself to the line of Sherlock’s body, nuzzling his neck. Worrying.

Sherlock glanced up, finished writing something, then quite deliberately set his notebook aside and folded his arms behind his head. 

John tilted his head. “Are you trying to make me late?”

Sherlock’s eyelids lowered halfway. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” John said, and concentrated on shaking out his clothes before he could do something stupid like ask to stay the night. 

Sherlock lifted his chin, but didn’t say anything. 

“See you downstairs?” John asked, when he was dressed again. Sherlock had watched in silence, occasionally frowning as if John was being very inept at doing up buttons.

“I would expect so,” Sherlock said. “You will be the centre of attention, at least for your allotted six minutes.”

John frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Mycroft’s gaze rested on you for several seconds when you crossed the room – one of his more calculating expressions. He has either mentally allocated an award to you, or was weighing up his chances of a successful seduction. And we both know you aren’t exactly his type.”

John snorted. “Right,” he said. “I guess we do both know that, given that you felt it was appropriate to tell me about your brother’s personal life within five seconds of meeting me.”

Sherlock didn’t blink. “You won’t tell anyone,” he said testily, and then he looked John straight in the eye and said, “John Watson. If you don’t leave in the next twenty seconds, you will be conspicuously late for the show, and Mycroft will be forced to come and say tiresome things to me that I have no desire to hear again. Go.”

“Right,” John said, “ah—yes” – and went. 

It wasn’t until he stepped inside the lift and came face to face with his somewhat tousled reflection that he realised he still didn’t know if Sherlock was going to follow him down. Maybe those were the last words he’d ever speak to him: a fumbled non-statement. 

His reflection grinned at him. Yeah, right. 

He ran his hands through his hair, smoothed his eyebrows – how had his _eyebrows_ become rumpled? – and gave himself a few discreet sniffs. All fine. He seemed to have – miraculously – got away with it. 

_The close observer would note the glazed expression and askew collar_ , John thought, in Sherlock’s dry voice. Jesus, he’d got under his skin fast. A pleased feeling surged inside him, a swell of reckless conquering energy. What a way to spend an evening. Five stars. 

He arrived back into of the lobby of the bar, and fought down a grin as he clocked the sign on the doors: _Private reservation, Marchson & Holmes Hoteliers_. At least he wasn’t going to forget the name in a hurry.

“John,” Amy called, as soon as he pushed through into the noise and chatter again.

John felt suddenly naked. “Hey, sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Have they started?”

“About to,” Amy said, drawing close to him and then suddenly smiling, dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “Where’ve you been?”

“Um,” John said, “around?” but her gaze had dropped to his neck, where John’s quick appraisal in the mirror had apparently missed something. 

“Oh my God,” she said, giving him an outraged look. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” John said, but Amy was having none of it. 

“Jesus,” she drawled. “I’ve been down here networking my arse off, while you…” She nodded at his neck, a succinct accusation. “You’ve been copping off in a cupboard somewhere! Go on then, who’s the lucky—lady? Man? Shall we just say… recipient?”

“None of your business,” John said, self-consciously tugging his collar up—and then the pleased feeling bubbled up inside him again and he reconsidered and tacked on, “But if you must know – Sherlock Holmes.”

The look on her face was worth it. John was barely aware of a waiter appearing at his elbow as if summoned, bottle in one hand, white cloth folded over the other arm.

“As in – Mycroft Holmes’s little brother?” Amy hissed, and John smirked and nodded.

“Champagne, sir?” the waiter said, a soft Irish drawl of a voice. 

John accepted a fresh glass, still enjoying the sight of Amy’s expression flickering between surprise and envy. 

“Do anything I wouldn’t do?” she asked eventually, settling on a dirty grin.

“Not much,” John said, fighting to keep his own grin under control. 

“Miss?” the waiter asked, a hard note creeping into his voice. John glanced at him, but he seemed utterly focused on pouring Amy’s drink now she’d proffered her glass. He was about John’s height but smaller in build, with close-cropped dark hair and intense, dark eyes. 

Amy’s eyes gleamed. “Did you get his number?”

“No, but… I think he’d know where to find me, if he wanted to,” John said, keeping his voice noncommittal. 

Amy laughed. “And I take it you think he will want to, you smug git.”

John thought back to Sherlock lying beneath him, staring up, lips parted; to him choking out surprised noises as he came; to his deep voice saying, all matter-of-fact, “— _extremely gratifying anal sex._ ” 

“Yeah,” John said, “I reckon he might.” 

The waiter cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked, in that soft lilting voice, and John blinked at him. Unlike almost all the rest of the waiting staff this evening, this one didn’t seem at all flustered. He looked at John with his head tilted, mouth twisted in a strange smile.

“Ah, no,” John said. “Thank you.”

The waiter looked at him a moment longer, glanced briefly at Amy, then shook his head and melted away into the crowd. 

John exchanged a glance with Amy that dissolved into giggling when she remained straight-faced. 

“Better wipe that smile off your face, you’re even turning the waiters’ stomachs,” she said, slipping her arm through his. 

Time sped up at that point: around him, people were moving in the direction of the dance floor. A spotlight flicked on, illuminating a small stage. 

The arresting figure of Mycroft Holmes took the stage, plum-coloured waistcoat gleaming; he said a few expansive words, his gaze skimming the crowd, occasionally alighting on someone long enough to compress the corner of his benevolent smile into a more mischievous angle. 

He read out various names, and the spotlight picked them out of the crowd whilst everyone clapped and cheered. Small speeches were given. Sherlock was never in the small group of people squinting in the light – not that John was looking, or anything.

John’s name was read out – _Best Newcomer: Appetite, by John Watson_ – and it was his turn under the hot white spotlight, blacking out the rest of the room. It was a dreamlike experience. As the clatter of applause rose around him, John wondered if the bright light would bleach out the mark on his neck, or exaggerate it. 

Because he was a twat, he had a speech prepared. It was probably going to annoy people. 

“As some of you may know, this wasn’t my first choice of profession,” he said, and smirked. “Or even my second – that’s another story. But the idea for _Appetite_ came from my old life, from the conversations of me and my mates in the army. We realised that nothing in the world tastes as good as lukewarm water gulped down on a march in the desert sun. No food is better than salt and fat and starch, after running up a mountain carrying your own body weight on your back. To eat and drink like that is to know why we evolved taste buds – it’s a brilliant, primal thing.” 

The lights were bright enough that he couldn’t tell if he was losing them or if they were hanging onto his words. Frankly, it was a relief not to know. He wet his lips, shrugged, and continued: “I wanted to build a menu around the food we fantasised about on those marches. Food that’s straight-forward and well-matched. Good bread and fresh butter. Basic pleasures.”

He was fairly sure he’d lost them now. He plunged on. “We’re not posh or exclusive. We’re cheap and simple – I am, anyway. And with the help of my extremely patient team, it’s going all right so far, so I’d like you to try us for yourself. Just a word of advice, though – if you do, come hungry.”

Then, mercifully, it was over in another small round of applause, and the spotlight slid back onto Mycroft, jovial and munificent as ever. John had another quick look around for Sherlock, but if he was here, he was keeping out of sight. 

Amy patted him on the arm, leaned in and said, “Well done.”

“Thanks,” John said, still scanning the crowds.

A couple more names were read out, a few more speeches were stumbled through, and then music started up, clearly with the vain hope that since everyone was already standing on the dance-floor, some would be convinced to stay and dance like idiots. To John’s amazement, it worked, on the _Time Out_ lot at least. The rest of the crowd melted back towards the bar. Sherlock did not seem to be among them.

“Well done,” Mycroft’s voice came, in his ear, warm and not at all like Sherlock’s. “Quite the achievement, for such a young establishment.”

“Ah, well,” John said, and realised to his annoyance that his bad leg had locked. Perils of standing still for such a long time. “Thanks.” _I don’t suppose you’ve seen your brother—? No. Absolutely not._ “Very honoured.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, and patted him on the arm. He seemed about to say something more, then contented himself with a close-lipped smile and moved away. 

John waggled his leg discreetly until the joint relaxed, and then winced at the deep muscular ache that followed. He knew from experience that it could get so strong he couldn’t bear weight on it; that was the last thing he needed, tonight. He massaged it discreetly and sank another glass of champagne. The combined effect seemed to help.

“All right?” Amy asked, putting a hand on his arm, smaller but firmer than Mycroft’s. She was reading his face, her eyes narrowing.

“Cramp,” John said. “Stood up too long.”

She gave him an earnest wince of sympathy. “Yeah, standing up for an entire speech can be so difficult, can’t it, after too much shagging…”

It startled a laugh out of him, and the ache seemed to recede a little. 

It was only polite to do the rounds. John loitered against a table, occasionally leaning on Amy when his leg threatened to give way, and smiled through the building discomfort. He’d overdone it, clearly. He should have known. For all Amy had been joking, it was true: he was too old to have a shag and then lark around afterwards. Time to call it a night.

“Already?” Amy said, a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

John nodded. “Sorry. Dinner with my sister,” he said, and he’d have to tell Harry later that he’d not been so grateful to her in years. “Watson tradition.”

She seemed to buy it. “Fine, but do me a favour and look really drunk on your way out? Then I can apologise for you and stick around.”

“Fine by me,” John said, and downed his glass before sticking it on the side. “G’night!”

He wove determinedly through the crowd towards the door, moving as if wearing blinkers and taking a grim pleasure in forgoing all the niceties of farewell. 

The Irish waiter from earlier held the lift for him. 

For a split second, John wanted to throw out the rulebook and say, “Twelfth floor!” but that had to be that last glass of fizz talking. 

“Congratulations, sir,” the waiter said cheerfully, as John entered. His gaze was heavy, and his hands were folded demurely behind his back. 

John gave him a nod and leaned against the mirror; out of the noisy heat of the bar, his ears were ringing and his head had a bit of spin to it. “Thanks.”

“An eventful evening,” the waiter mused, as the lift began to move. 

John rubbed his forehead. There was a funny chemical smell, like the lift had been cleaned recently, and now his head was beginning to ache. “Yeah, it’s been, er—good,” John said, closing his eyes. “Good.”

“I can only imagine,” the waiter said, and the soft bitterness in his voice made John’s eyes open again. 

Awkward. “Well,” John started, before the waiter scoffed and smiled, waving him aside. 

“Don’t get all bashful,” he exclaimed. “You should be proud of yourself! He’s very picky, very particular. Only the best for Mr Holmes. Of course, there’s always the occasional wild card, the weird choice, the one where you go ‘what on earth was he thinking?!’ but for the most part his taste is just,” and he brought one hand out from behind his back to kiss his fingertips, the showy confidence of a television chef, “to die for.”

“Right,” John said, his head really throbbing now. “Well, thanks.”

The waiter cocked his head, then threw out a too-charming smile. His voice had a sly brightness to it: “What did you say your name was?”

Oh. Oh. Great, John realised. That’s why this felt weird; the waiter wanted a piece of him. Apparently tonight – for one night only – he was irresistible to all men. 

“John Watson,” he said, and held out his hand.

Or maybe not, he amended a moment later: the waiter shook it limply, quick to take back his hand, his expression having flitted from interested to oddly resigned. Maybe John was just over-tired and reading everything wrong. 

“Nice to meet you,” the waiter said, clipped now, withdrawing back to his side of the lift and folding his hands behind his back again. Glancing in the mirror, John saw he was holding something—one of the white cloths he’d had folded over his arm in the bar. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again.”

“I, uh, hope so,” John said, floundering, and then to his relief the lift chimed, announcing they had reached the ground floor. The doors took their sweet time in opening. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Good night, Mr Watson,” the waiter said, lingering over his name. “Congratulations again.”


	5. Chapter 5

John walked across the foyer, then paused at the last minute and doubled back to the concierge. Any other night he’d get the bus, but his leg was hurting now, and besides, he’d just won a fucking award. If ever a cab was justified… 

“Soho, thanks,” he told the concierge, and tried not to think of Sherlock, on the top floor, no doubt sprawled out snoring on that lovely big bed, oblivious to the world. Or not asleep, not yet – lounging against the pillows, laptop propped on his knee, doing whatever it was that he did for fun besides too-short rolls in hired hay with whoever caught his eye that night. Or—

“The car is waiting out the front, sir,” the concierge said, “compliments of Mycroft Holmes,” and John gave him a surprised but grateful nod and limped off towards the main doors. 

The cold night air felt good on his face; sliding into the car and settling back into its leather seat felt good everywhere else. 

“Wardour Street, thanks,” John said, and closed his eyes for a couple of minutes, just listening to the rumble of the engine and letting himself drift. 

London by cab still felt like a luxury, even now he was doing better for himself. He had to be out pretty late or extremely tired to even consider one; many a night had found him waiting at the 153 bus stop after work, shifting from foot to foot in the cold, wishing he smoked or at least had brought gloves that day. Weather could change a lot in a 14-hour shift. 

John yawned and rolled his shoulders, seriously considering turning the cab around and going straight home. Harry would understand. She hadn’t even replied to his text – he should call, for that matter, check he wasn’t taking himself out only to be stood up. He would call. In a minute. 

His nose itched. He rubbed it with his knuckle, then screwed up his face as the strange chemical smell from the lift redoubled. He peered at his hand – he must have leant on something – and then sneezed, startling himself back awake. 

Right. Harry. 

He got his phone out, and felt a fleeting regret that he hadn’t got Sherlock’s number when he’d had the chance. Or at least left his own. It wasn’t like he’d had much time, though – everything had happened so fast. He couldn’t have been up there more than forty minutes. 

He shook his head. Sherlock knew where to find him – worst-case scenario, he could ask Mycroft for the list of winners, but John got the feeling that would be an unnecessary last resort. Not that John was desperate, or anything. Sherlock was hardly great company. Just… really fit. And with a smile that got under John’s skin, made him stand straighter. Made his cock awaken even in memory. That honest-to-god triumph John had felt, kneeling over him—

He should probably stop thinking about it so much. 

Well, he reasoned, it was the first bit of action he’d had in a while. Weeks and weeks, in fact. The last time he had any sort of sex was that string of Hoxton one-nighters, and before that, well, few and far between was putting it nicely.

The cab swerved around a corner and John came back to himself. They were approaching Piccadilly, turning into the congested backstreets of Chinatown. 

“Just here’s fine, thanks,” John said. The amount of piss-heads wandering into roads at this time of night would make the next bit quicker on foot, even at John’s reduced pace.

He climbed slowly out the cab, glanced around for any really obvious murderous mugging types, then tucked himself in against some scaffolding up one side of the road, out of the noise of the traffic, to call Harry.

“Get my message?” he asked, when she answered.

“Yes,” Harry said, “um.”

Um. Great. 

John rolled his shoulder, wishing he hadn’t sent the car away. Looked like he was about to get stood up after all. “What’s up?”

It could be anything. One of her staff could have gone crazy (again). One of her regulars could have tried to jump out the window (again). She could have broken her thumb trying to fix a bottle opener (again). Or she could just be knackered.

Harry made an unhappy noise. “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t come. Irene’s here.”

Whatever empathic reply he’d planned on making died in his throat. “What?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Harry said quickly, and John could imagine her biting her lip and rubbing her hand through her hair. “She just got here - she says someone’s following her.”

“I bet she does,” John said, his tone leaden, and wrapped his fingers around a cold pipe of scaffolding, squeezing it hard enough to burn. 

Harry said nothing.

John thought of Irene in her complicated silk dress. “Well, that’s great. I’m delighted for you. Hey, you know who else would love to hear you’re having Irene Adler over for closing-time drinks? Clara.”

“Look,” Harry said, “please, come on – she’s scared. I’m not doing anything wrong. Please don’t tell.”

“She’s an exceptionally good actress. But fine,” John said, blowing out a breath, “if you don’t want to see me, let’s not bother.”

“John…”

“It’s fine. We’ll pick it up another time.” Jesus, he was ready to throttle her. Couldn’t she see what a bad idea it was, playing with the fire that Irene brought to every occasion? If she ever wanted to get back into Clara’s good books, this was the worst way to go about it. 

“…I’ll be half an hour,” Harry said, and John actually felt surprised, which in turn made him feel like a terrible person. “Let me just drive her home.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was forty minutes before Harry got there, which gave John more than enough time to get a booth in the crowded late-night Vietnamese joint they’d made their hiding place from the rest of the world. 

“Waiting for someone,” he said, when a waiter approached.

“Of course,” the waiter said, but produced his pad anyway. “Anything while you’re waiting?”

He was very beautiful, John couldn’t help but notice. Dark hair, olive skin, and long eyelashes that swept up and down as he glanced between John’s face and his notebook. His jeans appeared to have been sprayed on. 

“Um… sure,” John said, and ordered a beer. 

“Anything else?” the man asked, with a coy smile. Bloody Soho.

John shook his head. “That’s it, thanks.” That was definitely it. He didn’t need to be thinking about some random man’s tight jeans right now. He had more than enough to be thinking about. 

The man tucked his pad away and sauntered off, returning a few minutes later with John’s beer and a basket of oversized prawn crackers. “To be getting on with,” he said, and winked.

“Um, thanks,” John said, and occupied himself with examining his beer label until he was left alone again. He felt like Sherlock somehow had left a sign on him, something that yelled _willing and eager_ to every passing homosexual. Or maybe he was giving out his own subconscious signals, having finally got back in the saddle with a proper degree of enthusiasm. 

He picked moodily through the prawn crackers, feeling his appetite wane. The enthusiasm had certainly been a while in coming. After getting back from Afghanistan he hadn’t slept with anyone at all for at least three weeks. Then he’d had a pissed one-night-stand with a girl called Charlie, which had been decidedly lacklustre—he’d blamed the booze. A couple of weeks later, he’d picked up a guy who looked like a young, ginger version of his therapist, and had fucked him for an hour and a half before giving up, unable to come. After that, he’d kept himself to himself until trying it on with Amy – and what a success that had been. 

John crunched through a prawn cracker, and then sank half his beer. Now he was distant enough from the crippling embarrassment of it all, he could see that time had been fairly normal dysfunction secondary to everything that had happened, but it still wasn’t his favourite thing to think about. At least he’d managed to have a good time since then, though – plenty of good times. Seven, in fact. With other people who weren’t Sherlock. 

He took another long swallow and closed his eyes. After Amy, he’d embarked upon his Hoxton Half-marathon; five guys, three girls, and yes, that made eight, because two of the girls had come as a pair. The first three guys had been anonymous, one night after another, until he’d proven to himself that everything still worked. Then he’d met the two girls in the first hipster bar he walked into: 26 and 29 years old with blunt-cut fringes and pupils huge off MDMA, who loved his cardigan, crooned over his scars and kissed each other as they rode him. John had no problem with that, had felt like he was in a music video or possibly some very post-modern porn, but had balked afterwards when they started talking about university – sure, they were both postgraduates, but Jesus it made them sound young. 

The next guy he went for was in his 50s, some loaded executive who lived in Brighton with his boyfriend but had a bachelor pad in London Bridge; he was charming enough, and the boyfriend was apparently fine with it, but John had still taken care to lose his phone number on his way out. The final two had been typical one-night-stands: go to a bar, nurse a drink alone until there’s someone to buy a drink for, then spoil them with flattery and sideways glances until they make the first move. Hardly rocket science. 

Dredging up the details made him feel better. He’d had plenty of sex; he didn’t need to get desperate over forty minutes with Sherlock. People like him would come and go. This itch under his skin to go back to the hotel, back to the twelfth floor, knock on his door—that was misguided. That was just the inevitable flare of interest that came with sex in a hotel: everyone knew hotel sex was better than ordinary sex. Hotel sex was catnip for the libido. Rushed hotel sex with an attractive and somewhat-elusive stranger – it was a wonder John hadn’t already convinced himself Sherlock was relationship material. 

He finished his beer, and hesitated over ordering a second. Harry allowed herself one drink per work-night, and she probably would have had it by now. As he deliberated, his phone buzzed in his pocket: _Ten mins away. Get the food in! Harry_

That was that, then.

John didn’t need to look at the menu. They were here to share the crispy duck pancakes, beef brisket curry, and special fried rice, and they were going to love every dirty MSG-packed mouthful. It was a gastronomic comfort blanket: they’d come here after mum’s funeral, after Clara moved out, after John got his discharge papers, plus plenty of times in between. 

“What’s up?” Harry greeted him, clambering into the booth opposite him. She was wearing a hat pulled down over her ears; when she took it off, her dark hair spiked out in all directions. 

“Hey,” John said. “Sorry for making you come all the way here.”

She combed her hair through with her fingers, kicked him gently under the table. “Nonsense. S’fine. You ordered the crispy duck, right?”

“Yup.”

“There we go then. I dropped her off at her building, she was fine. Spooked, was all. I don’t know.”

“You’re in the car?”

Harry shook her head, mouth full of prawn cracker. “Yes, but I left it back at mine, walked over – couldn’t face Chinatown. Besides,” she said, and nodded at his empty beer bottle, “I saved my drink up for you.”

John signalled the waiter: two more. _It’s a bigger issue if I forbid it_ , she’d said once, and he believed her. 

“Anyway, what’s up?”

The waiter brought their beers. John shrugged, taking a slow sip. “Nothing, just wanted to escape.”

Harry tutted. “You? But you normally love industry events more than life itself.”

“Quite.” He wanted to mention Sherlock. Every tipsy warm-glowing impulse centre in his brain wanted to boast, to re-live, to theorise. Only the fact that Harry wouldn’t hesitate to pick holes in it stopped him; he wasn’t ready to see how any of it held up to scrutiny.

Harry was shaking her head sadly. “Some day you have to smuggle me in, so I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could just take you as my plus one.”

“Where’s the fun in that? If I’m going anywhere, I want to be smuggled.”

John grinned and clinked her bottle with his own. “Deal.”

“Deal,” she said, even as her eyes narrowed. “So you’re significantly more upbeat than usual, after rubbing shoulders with that lot all evening. What happened to selling up? Last time I swear that was all you were talking about.”

Unbidden, an image of a certain someone sprang to mind. John cleared his throat. “Finally getting some recognition, aren’t I? I won a fucking _award_ tonight, don’t you forget…”

“Oh yeah, because what other people think has always been such a great motivator,” Harry said, nodding and smiling. 

“Okay, no, but… I don’t know.” John dropped his gaze, and started picking at the label on his beer again. “I don’t know,” he repeated. They’d been over this again and again, never reaching anything close to a satisfactory conclusion. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so keen to jump ship, this time. No one’s one hundred per cent happy in their job, are they?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m pretty happy.”

John snorted and took short swig of beer. “You just love drama – I’m not sure we’re cut from the same cloth, there. Which reminds me: any more customers tried to jump out the window?”

“No,” Harry said, then gave a little laugh, “but I did have the police around again…”

The food arrived, smelling like heaven, and John busied himself with piling fried rice onto his plate and greedily inhaling the steam. Canapés were all very well, but he was a grown man – and besides, it had been a more strenuous evening than expected.

Great, now he’d forgotten what they were talking about again. 

Luckily Harry seemed content to ramble on at him as they tucked in: she told him about some new cocktail she’d invented, which involved ice and fire and giant blueberries, and bubbles which stayed put when the drink was shaken with some sort of edible gel.

“Because that’s what the crowds love, a nice bit of edible gel,” John said. He’d forgotten how good it felt to spend time with someone who didn’t have an agenda. “Especially if it’s on fire.”

She beamed at him. “They do! They love it. And Irene got me… er… Irene got me this great lemon vodka, actually,” she said, eyes daring him to comment. “It makes a fantastic, long-lasting icy slush – layer it on top of any shot and it knocks their heads off.”

“I bet she did,” John said, but he felt mellow with hot greasy food and he found himself grinning at her.

“Yeah, she did. Shut up. There’s nothing going on, we’re just… friendly colleagues.”

“Mmm.”

“And Clara’s – good, since you asked,” Harry said, a little frost coming into her voice out of nowhere.

John gave her a wary smile. This wasn’t often an easy topic. “Was I supposed to ask? I thought she gone off the radar. Doing deals in Chiswick – _might as well be France_ , don’t I remember you saying?”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, wrinkling her nose and not meeting his eye, “turns out it’s only twenty minutes from Vauxhall, and if you meet halfway…”

John raised his eyebrows. “We’re meeting halfway, are we?”

“We’re meeting in what might as well be Chiswick,” Harry grumbled, but as she concentrated on scooping fried rice for herself the corner of her mouth quirked up. 

“Good,” John said. “I mean, uh – I hope that’s good,” he amended, when she shot him a look over her fork; it was clearly his turn to change the subject. 

He told her about Stamford’s latest stupid scheme – he hadn’t turned up tonight after all, too busy scouting out Scottish oyster farms apparently – which veered into an argument about whether straight girls could possibly enjoy eating oysters as much as not-straight ones did – and then back to Stamford, besotted with his ex-wife and planning to name a pudding after her to win her back.

“Note to self,” Harry said, pretending to write on her hand. “Invent… pudding…” She met his eye again and said dryly, “Let me know if it works, won’t you? Always good to have a few extra ideas up my sleeve.”

For a moment her gaze seemed very clear and intense, and John swallowed, unsure of what to say—and then Harry was signalling the waiter to clear their plates and the moment melted away. John took a sip of beer, relieved. He didn’t have any advice. Intense relationships weren’t his strong suit. 

“Hey, anyway,” Harry said, sipping her own beer and giving him a significant look. “I have proper news – I actually turned a profit this month! First time in six.”

John clinked his bottle against hers. “Dinner’s on you, then?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“It’s my turn, actually,” John said, then frowned, taking out his wallet. “Though I’m not sure I’ve got any—huh.” Sitting in the pocket of his wallet was a folded piece of paper, torn from a notebook, tucked alongside a couple of ten-pound notes. He took it out, his heartbeat speeding up, feeling the distinctive smoothness of acid-free paper. There was no question as to from which notebook it had been torn. 

_Once you’ve won, I look forwards to congratulating you again – in person. SH_

Harry craned forwards to see. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” John said, folding it back up. “Shopping list. Um, I have got cash after all. So I can, er…” His mouth was forming into a grin against his best efforts. “I can cover this. Definitely. My turn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as ever to puppethorse for beta. :)


End file.
